MANY THANKS to my literary agent, Jay Garon, who discovered my first novel five years ago and
peddled it aroundNew Yorkuntil someone said yes.

Many thanks to David Gernert, my editor, who's also a friend and a fellow baseball purist; and to Steve
Rubin and Ellen Archer and the rest of the family at Doubleday; and to Jackie Cantor, my editor at Dell.

Many thanks to those of you who've written. I've tried to answer them all, but if I missed one or two,
please forgive.

Special thanks to Raymond Brown, a gentleman and fine lawyer in Pascagoula, Mississippi, who came
through in the clutch; and to Chris Charlton, a law school pal who knows the alleys of New Orleans; and
to Murray Avent, a friend from Oxford and Ole Miss who now lives in D.C.; and to Greg Block at the
Washington Post; and, of course, to Richard and the Gang at Square Books.

1

HE SEEMED INCAPABLE of creating such chaos, but much of what he saw below could be
blamed on him. And that was fine. He was ninety-one, paralyzed, strapped in a wheelchair and hooked
to oxygen. His second stroke seven years ago had almost finished him off, but Abraham Rosenberg was
still alive and even with tubes in his nose his legal stick was bigger than the other eight. He was the only
legend remaining on the Court, and the fact that he was still breathing irritated most of the mob below.

He sat in a small wheelchair in an office on the main floor of the Supreme Court Building. His feet
touched the edge of the window, and he strained forward as the noise increased. He hated cops, but the
sight of them standing in thick, neat lines was somewhat comforting. They stood straight and held ground
as the mob of at least fifty thousand screamed for blood.

"Biggest crowd ever!"Rosenbergyelled at the window. He was almost deaf. Jason Kline, his senior law
clerk, stood behind him. It was the first Monday in October, the opening day of the new term, and this
had become a traditional celebration of the First Amendment. A glorious celebration.Rosenbergwas
thrilled. To him, freedom of speech meant freedom to riot.

"Are the Indians out there?" he asked loudly.


Jason Kline leaned closer to his right ear. "Yes!"

"With war paint?"

"Yes! In full battle dress."

"Are they dancing?"

"Yes!"

The Indians, the blacks, whites, browns, women, gays, tree lovers, Christians, abortion activists, Aryans,
Nazis, atheists, hunters, animal lovers, white supremacists, black supremacists, tax protestors, loggers,
farmers - it was a massive sea of protest. And the riot police gripped their black sticks.

"The Indians should love me!"

"I'm sure they do." Kline nodded and smiled at the frail little man with clenched fists. His ideology was
simple; government over business, the individual over government, the environment over everything. And
the Indians, give them whatever they want.

The heckling, praying, singing, chanting, and screaming grew louder, and the riot police inched
closer together. The crowd was larger and rowdier than in recent years. Things were more tense.
Violence had become common. Abortion clinics had been bombed. Doctors had been attacked and
beaten. One was killed inPensacola, gagged and bound into the fetal position and burned with acid.
Street fights were weekly events. Churches and priests had been abused by militant gays. White
supremacists operated from a dozen known, shadowy, paramilitary organizations, and had become
bolder in their attacks on blacks, Hispanics, and Asians. Hatred was nowAmerica's favorite pastime.

And the Court, of course, was an easy target. Threats, serious ones, against the justices had increased
tenfold since 1990. The Supreme Court police had tripled in size. At least two FBI agents were assigned
to guard each justice, and another fifty were kept busy investigating threats.


"They hate me, don't they?" he said loudly, staring out the window.

"Yes, some of them do," Kline answered with amusement.

Rosenbergliked to hear that. He smiled and inhaled deeply. Eighty percent of the death threats were
aimed at him.

"See any of those signs?" he asked. He was nearly blind.

"Quite a few."

"What do they say?"

"The usual. Death toRosenberg. RetireRosenberg. Cut Off the Oxygen."

"They've been waving those same damned signs for years. Why don't they get some new ones?"

The clerk did not answer. Abe should've retired years ago, but they would carry him out one day on a